‘Showgirls’ May Be Touted As Art But It’s Really Just Another B-Film

Flaunting its NC-17 rating proudly, “Showgirls” has been the subject of some grand promises.

According to its director, Paul Verhoeven, the controversial film “pushes the envelope portraying sexuality in a more precise way than you normally do in American movies.”

It communicates “an important message for young people to hear,” says screenwriter Joe Eszterhas. Eszterhas also says that, because of the film’s message, young viewers should “do whatever you have to do to see it.” (Even get fake IDs.)

That message, adds Verhoeven, involves “the American dream and looking at it in a pretty dark mirror.”

Sounds like the “Gone With the Wind” of Las Vegas girlie shows, right? The “Citizen Kane” of eroticism? The “Godfather” of skin flicks?

Actually, what we have here is a $40 million B-film not unlike any dozen or so Shannon Tweed vehicles that you can readily find on your favorite video-store shelves. You know, the ones that feature young women with shapely bodies who, darn the luck, find themselves having to go topless and/or bottomless just to get the (choose one: break, job, husband, star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame) they so desperately want.

Interesting, isn’t it, how people resort to grand statements just to rationalize their pet obsessions? We live in a society filled with people anxious to tell us not only what we should be doing with our lives but how we should be doing it: politicians, church leaders, bureaucrats, conservatives and libertarians, Ricki Lake - in short, zealots of all denominations. The list seems endless.

Just as Sen. Bob Dole not long ago scapegoated Hollywood for his own political ends, several Hollywood types have overlooked the valid parts of Dole’s arguments - and, yes, not everything the man said was ridiculous - in a rush to protect their turf.

And so while on one hand we have a presidential candidate trying to persuade us that tripe such as “True Lies” is “good family entertainment,” we have filmmakers such as Verhoeven and Eszterhas trying to persuade us that their celluloid sow’s ear is really a cinematic silk purse.

Somehow, we have lost the middle ground in all of this. We’re being presented with a choice of extremes, sort of like the “Tastes Great”-“Less Filling” argument.

While I’m no fan of political pandering, I’m no sucker for self-promoting Hollywood types either. Truly, I don’t think that the controversy surrounding “Showgirls” represents the end of Western culture as we know it. At the same time, this film is no philosophical treatise on either the necessity of living out your dreams or the hypocrisy of America.

It is, under it all, only an excuse for middle-age men to parade a gaggle of bare-breasted women across the big screen for a very long two hours.

Let’s make it clear here that we’re not talking about real-life women who, faced with the choice of joining a soon-to-be-non-existent welfare lineup or dancing in the nude, decide that the less egregious sin is to boogie in the buff. Whatever it takes to pays the bills.

No, what we’re talking about are filmmakers who use the issue of women facing this choice as a pretext to make movies that end up being little more than fuel for the Pee-wee Hermans among us. “Showgirls,” in short, is really just an eroticized group hug for the culture at large.

And we’re talking about filmmakers who then cover up the intellectual evanescence of their product by blaming America’s well-established sense of prudishness for making such product a controversial issue in the first place. It’s someone else’s problem that our work is seen as objectionable, they say. We’re blameless.

Well, Hollywood has used that argument in the past. And in many, if not most, cases I for one have bought it. Did “Midnight Cowboy” (1969) deserve its original X-rating? Of course not. Did “Medium Cool” (1969)? No. Did “The Devils” (1971). Maybe, but probably not. Did “Last Tango in Paris” (1973)? A harder call even yet, but still debatable.

Of course, Verhoeven and Eszterhas aren’t exactly saying that their film doesn’t deserve today’s version of the X-rating, the dreaded NC-17. In fact, they seem to be reveling in the fact. What they’re saying is that despite the rating, people should still see it, that kids should sneak into the movie because it has something worthwhile to say. Because, you know, it is art.

Excuse me? Folks, underneath its glossy exterior, “Showgirls” is just a silly story about a young woman named Nomi who comes to Las Vegas with dreams of being a dancer. Everyone takes advantage of her, from the guy who gives her a ride into town to the showgirl superstar she wants to replace.

But Nomi perseveres, don’t you know. She has talent, she has grit - even if she does refuse to rub ice on her breasts, for reasons that should be obvious - and she has the filmmakers firmly in her corner, covering for her as she inches toward her goal despite making one stupid decision after another.

Take a $1,000 fee for doing a, heh-heh, simple promotion? Why not? she says. Fall in bed with the Las Vegas showguy who, heh-heh, loves her? Can’t wait, she says. Introduce her best friend to the recording star who just finished saying how much he, heh-heh, admired her butt? It’s for the best, she tells herself.

Whatever, she makes out OK (even if her friend doesn’t). She gets what she wants (even if it doesn’t exactly occur in the way that she expects). Still, in the fashion of a million other variations on “The Devil and Daniel Webster,” Nomi has to face up to the price. She has to ask herself, is it too high?

Guess what she decides.

Better yet, ask yourself whether the admission price is too high for “Showgirls” itself. Is even $3 at bargain hour too much to pay for a film that, underneath it all, is really only about nipple-pinching, navel-licking, backside-slapping, lip-locking under a waterfall, simulated lesbian-clinching before an appreciative crowd, crotch-flashing to a paying customer, nude lap dancing to Aerosmith, gang rape, S&M, sexual slavery and swimming pool climaxes?

That’s a question only the individual viewer can answer. The Bob Doles of this world will tell you what they think, as will the Paul Verhoevens and Joe Eszterhases.

I’ll tell you only this: No way is it art.

I promise.

, DataTimes